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The snow starts late Thursday evening and for once in her life Clarke doesn’t bemoan the fact that she doesn’t own a car. It’s an accident waiting to happen, and by the time she manages to get herself up off Raven’s couch and down into the lobby of the apartment building, what was once white dusty powder is now full grown flakes the size of pennies, piling up into a thin sheet spread out over the sidewalk. The wind nearly makes them weapons, but by now, Clarke is more than accustomed to the Boston weather this time of year.
She catches the 10:30 towards Charles and it’s pleasantly uneventful. The platform is dead when she gets off at her stop, just her and a few other stragglers waiting for the opposite train. She makes sure she has her bag and phone and then makes a beeline for home.
It’s only when she halfway up the steps, digging through her pockets, that the dread sets in.
“Shit,” she grits through her teeth, reaching for her bag positioned at her hip. She tugs the zipper open, and plunges her hand inside, pushing things around, trying to see in the meager light above her door. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”
Clarke rezips it, letting it fall back to her side, and checks her coat pockets again. All she manages to find is a packet of gum and some crumpled up tissues in her left and her cellphone in her right.
She’s dialing Raven’s number before she realizes it.
“Clarke?”
“Raven,” and Clarke breathes the name like a sigh.
“What’s up, are you alright?”
“Are my keys there?”
“Your keys?” Raven says, and Clarke can see the look on her face just by the sound of her voice. “Oh my god, are you locked out?”
“Just tell me if I left my keys on your counter and they’re not lost to the abyss of the Boston subway.”
There’s a quiet grunt as Raven no doubt pushes herself up from the couch where Clarke left her. “Hold on.” There’s a moment of silence before soft rummaging carries over the line. “I can’t believe you’ve already locked yourself out.”
“Spare me Raven, please.” Clarke can hear the television softly in the background, the laugh track of some sitcom, and she turns around to watch the road behind her. Cars pass, their lights kaleidoscopic over the wet pavement. It’s peaceful, all things considered.
“Aha!”
Clarke whirls back around, facing her door. “You found them?”
The sound of jingling enters her ears. “Safe and sound,” Raven says.
Clarke exhales, and the breath expels in a fog. “Thank god.” She turns around, makes it halfway down the steps before–
“But now what?” Raven asks. “There’s no way you can make it. They’re shutting down the terminals early because of the weather.”
Clarke stops. “What?”
“Yeah. There was a news alert and everything.” Raven clears her throat. “I mean I can come get you–”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the opposite of smart.” Clarke clenches her jaw, pursing her lips as she glances up and down the sidewalk. Her eyes catch on the soft light through the blinds of her neighbor’s window, and well, beggars can’t be choosers. “I’m gonna try my neighbor’s.”
“Whoa, hold on–and that’s smart? Just let me come get you, it’ll take me thirty minutes.”
“If you put one foot in that car I will kill you myself, Raven, and that’s a promise.” She takes one more glance at the adjacent condominium and makes up her mind. Her legs do the rest. “I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up, Raven’s affronted remark cut off short, and she stuffs her phone back into her pocket as she jogs those few steps over to her neighbor’s. The universe has one more surprise, however, and Clarke’s left foot catches a patch of ice hidden under the gathering snow.
Her leg flies out from under her and she’s never had good balance. She lands hard on her hip, catching herself just barely with her left hand, and she lets out this squeak at the sharp pain that travels up her arm. She gets up slowly, feels the snow sneak into all the crevices of her clothing and start to melt.
Clarke brushes away the bits before hobbling up the remaining steps. Once firmly in front of the door, Clarke knocks–lightly at first before a particularly cold gust of wind swirls up from the sidewalk. Snow slips into the space at the back of her neck and she tucks her hands under her armpits. She nearly forgets to be nervous.
The thing is, she’s never seen her neighbor up close. Sure, when Wells and Raven helped her move in a week ago she had caught a glimpse of a woman bundled up in this dark coat and bright red scarf and curly brown hair, but it was just the back of her head before she disappeared through the door.
Here and now, however, it’s hard not to feel blindsided. The door opens unexpectedly and Clarke startles. For a second she’s too preoccupied with calming the sudden spike in her heart rate. That is until she notices a sharp jaw and green eyes and a wild mane of hair and her heart stutters for an entirely different reason.
Clarke blames it on the cold. “Hi,” Clarke stumbles out, teeth chattering, and the smallest quirk tilts the woman’s lips.
Her neighbor is dressed casually, dark jeans and a loose sweater, hair thrown over one shoulder and it’s effortless in a way that almost makes Clarke angry. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, I just moved in next to you. Clarke,” she’s quick to add. “I may have locked myself out.”
“You’ve… locked yourself out?”
Clarke grimaces. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
The woman’s posture relaxes, the line of her lips softening into an almost smile. “It happens to the best of us.” The door opens a bit wider and the woman holds out her hand. “Lexa.”
Clarke takes it and maybe it’s because her hands are half frozen but this tingly sensation spreads through her fingers and up her arm, pooling in her chest. “Hi.”
“Do you want to come in?”
Clarke nods. “Please and thank you. At least until I can figure something out.” Lexa moves aside to let her in. “Also, as a forewarning, there’s a patch of ice at the bottom of your stairs.”
“Is there? I’ll keep that in mind,” Lexa says, closing the door behind her. A brief pause builds before, “are you alright?”
Clarke looks over her shoulder, and the obvious concern takes her aback. “Yeah,” she manages as Lexa steps closer, and in the small entrance hallway all the oxygen seems to vanish “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Your hand doesn’t look fine,” Lexa observes, almost to herself. Her eyes rise up to Clarke’s and then she quickly glances away. Lexa walks by, their shoulders brushing in the hallway. “I can get you something for that.”
The hallway opens up into the kitchen, familiar in set up to her own just next door, but despite the minimalism, character finds its home in random places. The wooden knick-knacks and scarce photo frames. The pile of books stacked on the table and the loose leaf papers scattered between.
“You don’t have to,” Clarke starts, pulling her eyes away from the various objects, but Lexa is already gone, presumably to the bathroom if the sound of running water is any indication. Clarke removes her bag, hangs it off the corner of a chair, and then shrugs off her jacket, folding it over her arm. She awkwardly finds a seat.
Lexa returns a minute later, pulling up a chair beside Clarke and setting her supplies on the table (a couple of bandaids, an antiseptic wipe, and some ointment). Clarke faces her out of instinct and before she can react, Lexa sits down and takes her hand, turning it face up. The palm is red and scraped, but there’s hardly any blood.
“Does it hurt?” Lexa asks, scooting her chair closer, placing Clarke securely between her knees.
“It stings a little bit.”
Lexa gives an offhand nod, carefully rolling up Clarke’s damp sleeve so it doesn’t get in the way, and her hands are warm against the chill that seems to linger under Clarke’s skin. When she’s finished, Lexa rests the hand on her lap, taking an individual packet of the wipes and tearing the corner open. She picks up Clarke’s hand again.
Clarke watches Lexa’s eyes, the concentration and quiet confidence, and wonders how fast is too fast to fall in love.
“How are you enjoying it so far?” Lexa asks as she works, movements gentle and methodical. She sets aside the used wipe on the table beside them and reaches for the ointment. “Boston, that is.”
“Oh I’ve--it’s not my first time,” Clarke responds, giving a small shake of her head. “I lived near Roslindale for a while, went to MassArt for five years. I moved up here to be closer to work.”
“It’s something new at the very least?” Lexa comments, still focused. Clarke assumes it's her way of countering the inevitable awkward silence and she is grateful for it.
“Busier. I don’t know why people have to be in a rush all the time. Does anyone around here ever take a moment to breathe?”
Lexa’s lips quirk upwards. “No.” She takes the bandaids, strips off the protective adhesives. “Hold your hand still for a moment.”
Clarke does as she’s told. Lexa tests out different placements before settling the quilt padding over the worst of the scrapes, smoothing over the tails with the pad of her thumb until all the edges are flat and secured. She let’s go and Clarke takes her hand back.
Lexa stands, pushing back her seat. “Would you like ice for it?”
Clarke tests her hand. “No,” she says, clenching and unclenching her fist. The bandaids stretch and pull but honestly, it feels better.
“Something to drink then?”
“Do you have anything warm?”
Lexa’s brows pinch together as she thinks. She turns around and rummages through the cupboards. “Tea alright?”
“Sure.”
Pulling down a small box from above the stove and setting it aside, Lexa goes about filling the electric kettle with water from the filter and then places it back on its base. It beeps when Lexa starts it, this low rumbling noise emanating from the small machine as things start to heat. Lexa grabs two mugs in the meantime, draping a bag of tea for each over the side.
Clarke fishes out her phone from her pocket for something to do, swiping past the lock screen. It’s a distraction, of that Clarke is more than aware. A distraction from her predicament--a distraction from the woman currently making her tea in a house that is not her own. And it’s a flimsy one at that, considering the only notification that greets her is a winter weather advisory warning. She puts her phone down.
“Honey or milk?”
“Both if I can,” Clarke answers, studying Lexa’s back. Her movements speak of practice and routine, everything within reaching distance, and Clarke finds herself stuck. Staring at the way Lexa’s hand pushes up the sleeve to her sweater, baring a toned forearm and the hint of a tattoo. Clarke clears her throat. “Do you mind if I make a quick call?”
Lexa shakes her head. “Not at all.”
Clarke tries the landlord’s number first, and it rings for a solid minute before she hangs up and googles the closest locksmith in the Charles area instead. The search comes back promising at the very least. A phone number and hours that suggest 24 hour service. It’s only when she calls and gets an answering machine, the automated message saying something about inclement weather, that things come tumbling down again.
“Any luck?” Lexa asks as she clears the few dishes from the sink, waiting for the water to boil.
Clarke sighs, swiping back to the home screen and then to the most recent weather news. Cancellations come in droves, parking and travel bans already in effect declaring a state of emergency. “No. It seems the weather’s got everyone all messed up.”
Lexa hums. “Not particularly surprising.”
“Have you lived here long?”
Lexa glances over her shoulder, but just for a second before she’s pulled back by the loud beep of the kettle. She plucks it from the base and goes about filling the mugs. “Four years,” Lexa answers finally. She bobs the bag a few times in the water before letting it steep. “I did post my graduate studies in New York and then came up here for an internship. Afterwards I just.... never left.”
“Oh? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A company out near city hall,” Lexa says as she makes her way back to the table. She holds out the tea.
Clarke nods thoughtfully, taking the mug. “So you like it?” she says, hiding a grin behind the lip of the mug. “Boston, that is.”
Lexa gives a subtle shrug, but her eyes sparkle. “The weather is harsh,” she says as she takes a seat across from Clarke. “But it’s home.”
Clarke holds out her mug. “I’ll drink to that.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Lexa’s mouth that she tries to hide as she brings the mug to her mouth. She props her head in her hand afterward, the other loosely curled around the handle. Clarke takes a sip of her own and looks at her phone again.
“Do you have a landline?” Clarke asks, noticing the lack of service. “I can see if I can get in touch with the landlord one more time.”
Lexa shakes her head, apologetic. “I don’t.”
Clarke exhales. “I’m sorry,” she says, swiping through her phone. Nothing has changed since the last time she checked. “I didn’t mean to hijack your evening.”
“Don’t be,” Lexa says softly. “The company is a pleasant change of pace.” She catches Clarke’s eyes briefly before averting her attention towards the front windows and Clarke follows her line of sight. The night does little to hide the snow glinting in the light of the streetlamps. “Besides, you’re better here than out there.”
Clarke pushes aside her phone, wrapping both hands around the mug to pull it closer to her chest. Somewhere in the back of her mind she hears Raven’s scolding voice, but the longer she stays put the more comfortable and tired she becomes. It feels easy to blame the two glasses of wine and suffering through an early morning at work, so she does.
It has nothing to do with the woman currently sitting across from her.
She brings the mug to her mouth, this time a more generous taste, and Clarke feels the warmth of the tea coat the back of her tongue. It’s actually not bad. Soothing--the honey evident in every drop. The ache in her hand fades to a dull throb, second to the exhaustion that settles in the wake of a warm drink.
Lexa follows suit. “You could stay,” she says after putting her mug back down. “If you’d like. I have more than enough room.”
“I couldn’t,” Clarke starts, but she can’t think of a good reason not to. There’s nowhere else to go.
“Think of it as an apology for not introducing myself sooner.”
“Hardly seems like a fair trade,” Clarke says and her eyes dart between Lexa’s and the table before focusing on the teabag sunken at the bottom of her mug. She presses on the string with her thumb. “I feel like I’m intruding.”
Lexa folds her arms over the table, a slouch settling in her shoulders, and Clarke looks up. The lights cast the sharpness of her features in soft relief. The curve of her lips and the gentle waves of her hair...
“You’re not,” Lexa says softly, searching Clarke’s eyes. Without warning, Lexa moves from the table. She leaves without her mug, heading towards the hallway towards the rear. Clarke isn’t sure if it’s an invitation to follow, but stands anyway, draping her jacket over her now vacant chair. Her steps are careful as she trails after Lexa’s receding figure, stopping just short of the small hallway that leads towards the bathroom and watches the play of shadows over the hardwood floor.
Lexa emerges holding a t-shirt and sweatpants, and Clarke tries not to think too much of the way their fingers touch when Lexa hands them over. “Here.”
“Thank you?”
“There’s a washcloth and an extra toothbrush just under the sink.” Lexa says, purposefully ignoring Clarke’s confusion. “Feel free to use them.”
“Lexa.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to.”
“And what kind of neighbor would that make me, Clarke?”
“A smart one.”
Lexa’s lips spread into an amused smile. “I’ll take my chances,” she says, her hand finding the small of Clarke’s back and urging her forwards. Clarke wordlessly complies.
She doesn’t know how long she stands in the center of Lexa’s small bathroom before she manages to peel off her slightly damp shirt and pants, tugging on the alternatives, only that it’s as relieving as she imagined it would be. The sweats are long and the shirt a little tight around the chest, but it’s soft and dry and warm and that’s what matters the most.
When Clarke finally makes her way back to the kitchen, Lexa has returned to the table, nursing the last of her tea while she scribbles notes onto one of the loose-leaf papers. Her head rises at the sound of Clarke’s footsteps, eyes lowering to the shirt and pants before returning to her work.
“I’ll be out of your hair in just a second.”
“What are you working on?” Clarke asks instead, taking a seat again. She reaches for her mug and finds it still warm.
“I am compiling research for an upcoming piece,” Lexa replies.
“Are you a journalist?” At Lexa’s nod of affirmation, Clarke follows up with, “Would you mind if I asked what it was about?”
And to Clarke’s surprise, she doesn't. Lexa’s voice is soothing as she picks apart the discrepancies of large oil companies and their effect across the globe for over a decade. To be honest it is interesting, if only because of the timbre of Lexa’s voice as it meanders through various academic jargon. Her brain can’t handle much at the moment, but what it does have it holds onto tightly, though Clarke hopes she won't be quizzed. None of the information she's retaining will ever find it's way onto a test, but Clarke certainly doesn’t mind when the conversation derails into tangents far beyond her expertise. She watches Lexa’s eyes, her lips, her hands, and thinks there are definitely worse ways to spend a night.
“I’m boring you,” Lexa says sometime later, accusing if not for the small upward tilt of her lips.
“No,” Clarke says, response a tad slower than it should be and she hides her embarrassment with a laugh. Her eyes fall to the table and her now empty mug of tea. “No, trust me. It’s very interesting, but I also had a very early day and a rather stressful evening and I can just feel it all catching up to me.”
Lexa watches her openly before rifling through the papers and stacking them neatly until things look tidy. “You should have said something.” She pushes away from the table, gesturing for Clarke to do the same. “I can help you get set up. You can have-”
“The couch is fine,” Clarke says, maybe too fast, grabbing her phone and moving to follow. “A couple of blankets and I’ll be good to go.”
There's a awkward pause (and perhaps a small insignificant moment of time in which Clarke thinks (hopes) Lexa might argue) before Lexa nods, moving past Clarke towards the hallway near the bathroom. Opening the storage closet, Lexa disappears behind the door and the sound of shuffling fills the room. A couple seconds later she pulls away with an armful and nudges the door closed with her foot.
“Thank you,” Clarke says when Lexa makes her way over, accepting the large bundle of blankets like a gift.
Lexa runs a hand through her hair, and Clarke finds her eyes drawn to the curve of her jaw and the line of her neck--the slope of her shoulder when the sweater slips just so. “If you need anything, my room is just over there.”
“Sure,” Clarke murmurs, forcing herself to focus. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Lexa tilts her head, smiles. “Goodnight Clarke.”
Clarke situates herself on the couch, pulling up her feet along with the blanket, and Lexa shuts off the lights when she leaves. Not too long later Clarke hears the click of a door as it shuts.
The night is quick to settle into the far corners of Lexa’s small abode, broken apart by the bits of light from the street outside that filters through the blinds. Clarke can see the snow even now, tempered yellow from the streetlamps, swirling in clusters towards the earth. Clarke had never truly understood the saying that silence has a sound, but here, buried beneath piles of blankets on an acquaintance’s couch, things start to make sense.
Clarke wiggles her arm out from under the covers, grasping for her phone on the coffee table and tapping it awake. Squinting from the brightness, she scrolls though until she finds the four or so recent texts from Raven, and doesn’t bother with typing out a response. Clarke pulls the blanket up over her head and presses the phone to her ear, surrounding herself in a scent that is already becoming familiar and perhaps too welcome. It’s hard to tell which is worse.
The ringing cuts off abruptly.
“Raven?” Clarke whispers.
“Oh thank god,” Raven exhales, “I thought you were dead.”
Clarke listens to the silence. The wind and falling snow, the rumble of a plow as it makes its way down the road. “I think I’m in love.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s pining.”
Clarke exhales loudly, glancing over at both Wells and Raven seated with her in the booth. Their go to diner is busy for a Thursday afternoon and all the noise is the only saving grace from the extra thoughts swirling in her head. “I’m not pining.”
Raven ignores her. “Hopelessly in love.”
“What?” Wells looks between them. “With who?”
“Her neighbor.” Raven supplies.
“It’s nothing,” Clarke says, and Raven raises a brow at her incredulously.
“Remember that storm a couple days ago?” Raven starts, and Wells nods. “Clarke here got herself locked out after forgetting her keys at my place and somehow scored a night with Miss Tall Dark and Mysterious.”
“Please don’t call her that. And that’s not how it went--”
“And I don't know who’s more stupid. Clarke for forgetting her keys and staying over at a neighbor’s she hardly knows or said neighbor for letting her.”
“It’s not as bad as Raven is making it seem,” Clarke says to Wells. He smiles that soft Wells’ smile and Clarke feels a little less like an idiot.
“Do you like her?” Wells asks.
Clarke shrugs, but makes a point to avoid any and all eye contact. “She was very nice about the whole thing.”
“So, in Clarke speak that’s a ‘yes’?” Wells prods. He rests his weight on the table. “Or am I wrong?”
Clarke purses her lips, the stubborn part of her grumbling at Wells’ spot on conclusion. She sulks instead. “Just a little.”
“It won’t hurt to talk to her again.”
“Yeah,” Clarke says, twirling her straw. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”
Clarke stops by after work and a quick detour to the small tea shop two streets over from the train station. She figures it’s the least she could do after what happened. Words of thanks simply don’t cut it.
The bottom of Lexa’s steps have been salted, but Clarke treads carefully just in case, shifting the basket of tea under her right arm so she can knock without potentially dropping it. Not too long later the door swings open and Lexa appears in the threshold. She doesn’t look different at all compared to the evening a couple of nights ago.
“Hi,” Clarke says, and she holds out the gift. “This is a thank you for letting me sleep on your couch.”
“You didn't have to,” Lexa says, accepting the basket from Clarke’s hands. “It’s not a very comfortable couch.”
“Compared to the benches outside the library I’d say you were wrong.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“No,” Clarke says, but at Lexa’s subtle tick of an eyebrow she emends, “Maybe. College was weird.”
“I don’t know if I want to know.”
“It’s probably better if you didn’t,” Clarke says, trying not to smile, but the one currently tilting Lexa’s lips makes it hard not to. “I’ll see you around then?”
“Yes,” Lexa says softly, and the warmth of her voice stirs this buzz underneath Clarke’s skin. “Thank you, Clarke.”
Clarke stuffs her hands into her pockets. “Don’t mention it,” she replies, hiding her smile into the collar of her jacket.
And it's that feeling, chest light as though her heart will find its way out of her mouth, that makes her think--
oh.
This is so much worse than she thought.